Текст книги "Winter Kill "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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“Doesn’t he have a job?”

“Part time. It’s more of a hobby, I’d say. Even if Buck hadn’t made a fortune in real estate, he married money.”

“It usually seems to work that way. I’ve been thinking about the Watterson boy. Is there any possibility his death wasn’t an accident?”

He really had a way of dropping those nasty little bombshells. Adam had one dark imagination, that was for sure. Rob said, “I don’t think so. There was never any suggestion that it wasn’t an accident.”

“How did it happen?”

“There’s a giant boulder at Blue Rock Cove. Kids dive off it into the lake. It doesn’t matter how many times you post warnings, kids always believe they’re invincible. Anyway, Terry jumped off the blue rock, hit his head, and drowned.”

“Was he alone when the accident happened?”

“No. There were witnesses. A bunch of kids saw it happen. Well, I shouldn’t say ‘kids,’ because these idiots were all college age, and they were all drinking. And before you ask, both Billy Constantine and Zeke were among them. Zeke grew up in Nearby. He and Terry were best friends.”

He waited for Adam to ask the next question—there was always going to be a next question with Adam—all Adam said was, “It should be a lot quieter around here now that Tiffany’s been found and the search and rescue teams have gone home.”

“Yep,” Rob said. “Now we just have to get rid of these pesky serial killers, and life can get back to normal.”

To his surprise, Adam threw him that rare, pointed grin and said, “But it seems to me that maybe serial killers are normal for Nearby.”

“Oh, sa-nap,” Rob said, and Adam chuckled.

* * * * *

Bert Berkle bred and trained the best tracking dogs in the county. In fact, some people said he raised the best dogs in the state. Rob liked dogs—they’d always had beagles at home when he was growing up—but he wouldn’t have paid twenty-four grand for any dog. Berkle seemed to make a decent living though, so apparently there were enough people willing to dish out big bucks for a pooch.

“You’re not afraid of dogs by any chance?” Rob asked as they parked in front of the large single-story cedar cabin. The cabin was nice enough. The real property value lay in that breathtaking lakefront view and the private dock. “Allergic to them?”

Adam raised his brows. “Me? No, I like dogs.”

“Good.”

A crisp breeze blew across the lake and turned the blue water choppy with white caps as they left the SUV. They went up the wooden walk and the dogs in the kennels behind the house started barking. It sounded like a hunting pack in full cry.

“Imagine listening to that at night,” Adam observed.

“Yeah. Luckily the closest neighbor is over there.” Rob pointed toward the mountain where they had been searching only the day before. A helicopter was slowly circling the approximate area of Sandy Gibbs’s “compound,” as the press was dubbing it.

“They’re not exactly tripping over each other.”

“No, but you know the old this-town-isn’t-big-enough-for-both-of-us routine? Well, the county isn’t big enough for those two.”

They stepped onto the porch, and Rob knocked on the rough hewn cedar door.

There was no answer.

“His truck is parked under the carport. He’s probably in the back,” Rob said. “Unless he’s on the lake.” He led the way back down the steps and around the side of the cabin to the kennels in the rear.

He’d been here a couple of times—usually to ask for Berkle’s help when some camper or hiker got himself good and lost. Everything looked the same. Rows of tall immaculate dog pens, several long enclosed runs, a big metal barn, a dog trailer, and black semi truck cab adorned with a naked lady on the door.

“Those aren’t German Shepherds,” Adam observed as they neared the pen with the short-haired fawn-colored dogs.

“Belgian Malinois,” Rob said. “They look a lot like Shepherds.”

“They’re more alert and smarter than GSDs,” Berkle said, exiting one of the pens. He locked the gate behind him. “Better looking dog too.”

He was a mountain of a man. Big shoulders, big arms, big black beard, big blue eyes. He looked intimidating, though Rob couldn’t think of an instance where Berkle had ever tried to bully or use force. He kept to himself mostly, though he was a regular at the Lakehouse Restaurant bar during the summer months. But then pretty much everyone was a regular, given that it was the only real restaurant in almost forty miles.

“Bert, this is Agent Darling of the FBI. He’s helping us investigate Cynthia Joseph’s murder.”

Berkle nodded curtly to Adam. To Rob he said, “I heard you found the Joseph girl. Is she going to be okay?”

“We hope so,” Rob said, and Berkle’s stern expression seemed to lighten.

“And you finally got Sandy Gibbs in custody?”

“Well, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” Rob said. “We’ve been questioning Gibbs, and he’s come up with a story that we feel we’ve got to investigate.”

“Okay,” Berkle said warily. He looked from Rob to Adam.

Adam said, “Can you clarify the situation between yourself and Mr. Gibbs, sir?”

Berkle’s black brows drew together. “The situation?” he repeated to Rob.

“Gibbs has made some pretty serious allegations,” Rob said.

“About what?”

“About an incident several years back,” Adam said.

Berkle ignored him, waiting for Rob to speak. Rob said, “Gibbs is claiming that you killed that hiker who disappeared back in ’98.”

Berkle’s jaw dropped. “He said what? And I would do that why?”

“Why do you suppose he’d make such an allegation, sir?” Adam inquired.

Probably a liability in social situations, Adam. Then again, he was a guy who used the word “firstly” with a straight face, so Rob was going to cut him all the slack he needed. He was looking severe and serious as he waited for Berkle to respond.

“I’ll tell you why he’d make up such an allegation,” Berkle told Rob. “He wants my land. He’s been after my land for the last twenty years. So he made up this cock-and-bull story about something he probably did himself.”

Adam said, “He claims you tried to kill him yesterday.”

Berkle looked at Rob and gestured toward Adam in a kind of futile are you kidding me? gesture.

“If you could just answer the question, Mr. Berkle,” Rob said.

“What question? He’s not asking me any questions. He’s accusing me of murder.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, sir,” Adam said. “It’s our job to follow up on these allegations.”

Rob made a mental note to check for the battery compartment when he got Adam home that night, because if ever a guy sounded like a robot…

“I didn’t kill that hiker,” Berkle said. “I haven’t killed anyone.”

Adam looked unimpressed. “What do you do for a living, sir?”

“As you can see, I raise dogs.”

Adam indicated the black semi truck cab parked beside the barn. “Do you also drive a big rig?”

“No.” Berkle reluctantly qualified, “I used to.”

“What route did you use to drive?”

“I drove all over the country.”

Adam nodded noncommittally. “And you’ve lived in the area…how long?”

“My entire life. Sure as hell longer than Sandy Gibbs. I bought this property in ’95.” Berkle said to Rob, “You know where I was yesterday. I was with the search team to the south, looking for the Joseph girl. My dogs found her cell phone. My dogs.”

“I know,” Rob said, and despite his best effort, he knew he sounded apologetic.

Knew because Adam gave him a cool, critical look before saying, “Do you mind if we have a look around the premises, sir?”

“Yes, I mind! What the fuck do you think you’re looking for?”

Good question. Tiffany had been found. Did Adam think they were going to discover a bloody knife beneath one of the doggie beds? Anyway, Rob was all but positive that the figure he’d seen the night before was not Berkle. Even though the man with wings had been standing on a ridge looking down at them, he had not appeared as big and burly as Berkle did right now.

Despite the fact that he believed Adam was way off track—and that he, Rob, was going to have to live with these people long after Adam returned to the big city—he felt compelled to ask, “Would you mind telling us where you were Saturday morning about three o’clock?”

“Here. In bed!”

“And Thursday night?”

“In bed. At home.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

Berkle’s glare faded. He suddenly laughed. “Yeah. Sure. Ask the dogs. They’ll vouch for me. No, better yet, talk to my lawyer, asshole!”

He shoved through them, striding toward the house.

Rob looked at Adam, who was absently massaging his shoulder and staring after Berkle.

“That sure could have gone better,” Rob couldn’t help saying.

“It went all right.”

“All right?”

Adam threw him a quick, surprised look. “Yes.”

“Come on, Adam. You know as well as I do Berkle was not who we saw on that hillside last night. Can you imagine him dressing up like a giant bird?”

“No.”

“No. We just pissed off the best tracker in the county. And for what? That was a complete waste of time.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Rob stared at him. “How did you figure that?”

Adam met his gaze, green eyes shining with conviction. “He’s our guy, Rob.”

Chapter Twelve

 

Rob preserved a formidable silence all the way back to the SUV.

But once they were inside the vehicle and out of listening range, he said—clearly exercising self-control, “You want to explain to me why you think Berkle, who has been nothing but helpful to the investigation, is our guy, but Gibbs, who tried to kill us and everyone else on that mountain yesterday, is somehow a credible witness against him?”

“He’s lying. Everything out of his mouth was a lie.”

“Even if that were true, and I’m not sure how you think you could know that based on all of five minutes conversation, you already agreed it wasn’t Berkle last night. And if there’s some nut running around dressed like a raven who isn’t involved in these murders—”

“I’m not talking about Cynthia Joseph’s or Azure’s slayings. I’m talking about the Gaura killing.”

“The Gaura killing is a cold case.”

“Yes. Two—three—different killings. Two different cases,” Adam said. “In fact, I think the Koletar killing may be linked to Gaura’s murder.”

Rob stared at him. “You think we’re dealing with two serial killers.”

“Yes.”

“Adam, you’re probably my favorite person in the world, so don’t take this the wrong way. You’re crazy.”

What was crazy was that he even registered the favorite person in the world comment. Adam said patiently, “You suggested the same thing yourself not that long ago.”

“I was kidding!”

“No, you weren’t.”

Rob scowled at him. “Okay, according to Gibbs, who you seem to think is such a reliable witness, Berkle is responsible for all the killings.”

“Gibbs is an idiot,” Adam said succinctly. “I don’t think he’s a reliable witness. I do believe he gave us a reasonably accurate accounting of his own personal experience in the woods that night.”

“Seventeen years ago!”

“Nobody would forget an experience like that.”

Rob shook his head. “Two serial killers?”

“Technically there have to be more than two murders to qualify for serial killing,” Adam said. “But I think the Raven is just getting started. Berkle…he’s been out there for a while, and your woods—or the lake—may hide more bodies than you think.”

Rob grimaced. “Don’t call him ‘the Raven,’” he said. “Don’t give him a goddamned name. Imagine if some reporter got hold of that!”

“Sorry.”

They were silent, listening to the dogs still barking in the kennels behind the house.

“This isn’t just a hunch,” Adam said. “It’s a matter of logistics. Look at this place. There’s no one for miles around. He could do anything to anyone, and no one would see or hear. Plus, Berkle has a job that allows him to prowl remote areas of the countryside, unquestioned. And if they do question? He’s training tracking dogs.” He tried to suppress the small shudder the next thought gave him. “Hunting dogs.”

“You can’t think—”

“I don’t know, Rob. I know that he’s got a large enclosed trailer to haul those dogs around. He can drive country roads pulling that thing behind him, and again, no one would ask questions. And before that, he was a trucker. The entire nation could have been his hunting ground. Why not say what his route was?”

“He did!”

“All over the country is not a real answer. He didn’t want to say. Why?”

Rob frowned, staring out the window, fingers drumming restlessly on the steering wheel. “Berkle doesn’t like you. That could be a lot of what you picked up.”

“I know he doesn’t like me,” Adam replied. He remembered Berkle from the first night he’d arrived in Nearby, back in October. He’d walked into the Lakehouse Restaurant, looked straight at Berkle, and Berkle had looked right back at him and turned his back. As though he knew exactly who and what Adam was. “Nobody likes the FBI. There’s more to it than that.”

“He’s the right age for the Koletar killing, I guess. But then so is half the population of Nearby. What the hell would his motive be?”

“Psychological gratification of some kind. Whatever it is, it’s not going to make sense to us. Maybe he robs his victims. Maybe he’s a lust killer—”

“Gaura and Koletar were male.”

“And men never feel lust for other men?”

Rob’s look of outrage would have been amusing in other circumstances. “Bert Berkle is not gay!”

“Is there a Mrs. Berkle?”

“No. There isn’t anyone, male or female, in Berkle’s life. I told you, he’s a loner.”

“That inability to form attachments is a classic indicator. Rob, I can’t tell you why someone like Berkle turns to murder. Childhood abuse? Maybe he’s got an extra chromosome. Maybe he’s got a screw loose. Who knows? We’re probably never going to find what triggered him either, although there had to be a trigger of some kind.”

Rob gave another of those exasperated exhales.

“We caught him off guard,” Adam said. “He never expected to fall under suspicion, let alone to be questioned. That won’t happen again. And, by the way, that’s another indicator—how fast he threatened to lawyer up.”

“He wasn’t afraid. He was angry.”

“He was offended.” Adam’s smile was caustic. “We pricked his ego. All this time he’s been thinking he was so clever, so smart, fooling everyone. And then we came along, and he realizes he’s not as smart as he thought.”

Rob muttered, “I’ll tell you one thing. We’ve been sitting here talking in his front yard long enough.” He started the SUV’s engine and they pulled around and headed slowly back down the road.

“We need to learn everything we can about Berkle,” Adam said. “Including his old truck-driving route.”

Rob shook his head, but he didn’t argue.

* * * * *

Constantine House looked as though someone had picked up an antebellum mansion and plopped it down in the middle of the forest. A large, stately white structure with tall columns, sweeping verandas, and enormous windows, the house nonetheless looked odd, almost grotesque in its setting of pine trees and snowy mountains.

But then what could you expect from a guy who wore fringed buckskin in public?

“That’s a lot of house,” Adam commented, zipping up his jacket against the cold wind blowing down from the mountains.

“Yeah, it is,” Rob said. “Buck built it for Mary. She only got to live there for a couple of years.” He grimaced. “Cancer. It was pretty hard on the boys.”

“Buck too, I imagine?”

“Sure. Of course.” Rob eyed Adam consideringly. “Do me a favor and try to be a more tactful with the Constantines than you were with Berkle, okay? I like my job. I want to keep it.”

Adam said evenly, “It’s a murder investigation, Rob. Getting at the truth isn’t always tactful.”

Maybe it was the chilly breeze that brought pink to Rob’s cheeks. Maybe it was something else. He said, “That’s true. However, this is still my—our—investigation. You’re here in a support capacity, remember? So I’ll decide when and if we’re untactful.”

That was pointed enough. Adam nodded. Rob nodded back. They went up the wide white steps in silence. Rob rang the doorbell.

After a moment or two, the double doors swung soundlessly open. Adam was expecting a liveried  butler, or at the least, a housekeeper. But Buck Constantine stood before them, clad in a blue smoking jacket and leather slippers. He was not smoking. He did carry what looked like a martini glass. And that seemed incongruous with both the mountainous and antebellum backdrops.

“Rob.” Buck’s surprise was evident. He glanced at Adam. “And…sorry, I forget your name.”

“This is Agent Darling,” Rob said. “May we come in, Buck?”

“Of course.” Buck stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. “We heard the Joseph girl was found. How’s she doing? Has she been questioned?”

“She’s undergoing medical treatment right now,” Rob said. “We hope to question her shortly.”

“I can only imagine what that poor kid has been through. We can talk in the library.” Buck led the way through a ridiculously grand hall—marble floors, a high ceiling with decorative panels and cove molding, and three life-sized family portraits—to a formal study. Or, according to Buck, his library, although there weren’t any books as far as Adam could tell.

The study was furnished in dark wood and green velvet. Somber paintings of Native Americans adorned the walls, though Adam thought most of the paintings featured Plains Indians and Eastern Woodland tribes, and not the indigenous peoples of Southern Oregon.

“Can I get you two something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?” He held up his martini glass. “I don’t usually start drinking this early, but it’s been a stressful week for all of us.”

“No thanks,” Rob said. “Is Bill home?”

Buck raised his silver brows. “Billy? No. Why?”

“We have a couple of routine questions to ask, that’s all.”

Adam said, “Mr. Constantine, were you aware of the relationship between your son and Tiffany Joseph?”

Though he felt the irritation in Rob’s gaze, Adam’s focus was on Buck as he tried to interpret those myriad, fleeting micro expressions. Not surprise. Not fear. Not anger… something. Disgust? Contempt? A strong and definite emotion, which was instantly suppressed.

“No. I didn’t. Because there isn’t one.”

Rob removed his glare from Adam’s profile and turned his attention to Buck. “Are you sure about that? We have reason to believe—”

“Absolutely not,” Buck said. “There was no relationship there. She’s a kid. Billy is a-a man.”

“A young man. And she’s a pretty girl. He used to tutor her in biology,” Rob pointed out.

“He’s tutored half the teenagers in Nearby. That doesn’t mean there was ever anything inappropriate going on.”

Buck’s tone was casual, even humorous, as though the idea were totally ridiculous. Surely the first and most likely problem Cynthia Joseph would have with any romantic connection between her daughter and Bill would be that he was too old.

Would a seventeen-year-old girl agree? Adam thought of Bridget. Not all victims were unwilling.

“No, of course not,” Rob was saying.

“Billy is a genius when it comes to science. I don’t know where he gets it from. Not from me, not from his mother. Dan never showed any interest in science.”

“I know,” Rob said. “I remember when he won that scholarship to Oregon Health and Science.”

“Exactly. He enjoys that kind of thing. Tutoring. He would have made a good teacher.”

“Does Bill have a girlfriend?” Adam asked.

At the same time Rob suggested, “But maybe Tiffany had a crush on Bill?”

“No,” Buck said, and Adam wasn’t sure if he was answering Rob or himself.

Back off was the message in Rob’s hard brown gaze. Was he overstepping? Yes, probably. This was the difficult mix of personal and professional. As easy-going and laidback as Rob was off the clock, he was still a cop, and a good one, and he didn’t need or want Adam trying to do his job for him.

Adam offered an apologetic look and swallowed his next question. Rob said, “When are you expecting Bill home?”

“He doesn’t work regular hours. He goes in when they need him.”

“Right. Will you let him know we’d like to speak to him when he’s got a moment?”

Buck nodded. He looked unhappy and wary.

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Rob said.

Rob slammed the SUV door hard and said, “What part of this is my investigation do you not get, Darling?”

“I agree. I was overzealous,” Adam said.

“That’s big of you.” Rob jammed the key in the ignition. The engine roared into irritable life.

Rob did seem uncharacteristically pissed off. Even so, Adam couldn’t help asking, “What’s the big secret regarding Bill Constantine?”

Rob’s frowned deepened. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s obvious there’s something going on, some piece of information that you’re all aware of but no one discusses openly. A scholarship he apparently didn’t utilize, an expected career path he didn’t follow, a part-time job nobody wants to talk about.”

Rob stared. “Jesus. I’m starting to think you’re a fucking robot.”

The depth of his anger bewildered Adam, flustered him a little. He couldn’t see the reason for it.

Rob said, “This is the difference between the way government polices, and the way real people police each other. I live here. I care about these people. They’re my neighbors and my friends. Unlike you, I don’t get to pack up and leave when it’s all over. I have to stay here. Live with their pain and their loss and their grief. And I don’t want to add to that, if I don’t have to. Can you understand that?”

“Of course I understand that.”

“We don’t have to trample everyone under our hobnail boots.”

“Hobnail…”

“We don’t have to march in like it’s martial law and treat everyone like a suspect.”

Adam opened his mouth and Rob cut in, “And even if everyone is a suspect, one thing I do know, even if I’m not in the FBI, is that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

Stung, Adam said, “That’s great if you’re trying to catch flies. We’re trying to catch a killer.”

“Funny.” Rob’s eyes were cold. “I’ll tell you what the big secret is about Bill Constantine. After his mom died, he had a breakdown. Or whatever the proper medical term is for it. He dropped out of college, lost his scholarship, and was hospitalized for a while. And now he’s working a shit menial job because the alternative is sitting home all day watching his old man get potted. Okay? I know you were hoping for something a lot deeper and darker. The kid has problems, and most people are sorry for him. Most people get the fact that we all have our weaknesses, our vulnerabilities.” Rob was glaring as he finished, “We can’t all be high powered hot shot special agents for the government!”

Adam didn’t have an answer. Not true. He did have an answer. He was the last person to judge someone like Bill. He hadn’t had a breakdown after the Conway case, but it had been close, and for a time he’d been popping Xanax like breath mints, and seeing the departmental counselor on a regular basis. So yes, he understood all about weakness and vulnerability.

But he couldn’t explain that to Rob, not when Rob was looking at him with that mix of dislike and disgust. Besides, this was clearly not just about Bill Constantine, and since he couldn’t tell Rob what he wanted to hear…maybe it was preferable to be thought a cold-hearted robot than someone terrified to take a chance on being wrong. On getting hurt.

Adam grimaced. “I apologize. I know I overstepped.”

“You did. Yeah. And the next interview I conduct will be without you.”

That hurt even more than the rest of it, and Adam didn’t have a response.

Rob must have felt that he’d won that round because without another word he threw the SUV into gear and they started back to town.

Adam had grown used to Rob’s usual chatty friendliness, and the silence made the drive feel twice as long. He almost apologized again. But it wasn’t really an apology Rob was looking for. Or maybe it was. Rob had made a point of how he never lacked for company, of how much he enjoyed playing the field. Maybe he was just looking for Adam to grovel. In which case, he could keep looking. Point taken. Move on.

They were still not speaking when they reached the sheriff’s office. Adam spotted his rental car parked in front, so Russell had returned from his mysterious trip to Medford. Great.

As they walked through the front doors, Aggie glanced up and said quietly, “Trouble.” She seemed to be speaking to Adam.

“It’s about time you two wandered home,” Frankie called. “Come and say hello. We’ve got company.”

Through the doorway to Frankie’s office, Adam could see part of Russell’s face. He was smiling at someone on the other side of the room, and Adam’s nerves wrenched still tighter.

What the hell was going on?

He mentally squared himself, strolled through the doorway, and found the small room crowded with blue and gold FBI jackets. Russell was seated in Rob’s usual chair in front of Frankie’s desk. A large, blond man, a stranger to Adam but instantly recognizable as the agent in charge, was taking up a good portion of wall real estate. And a woman—Jonnie—sat in the other chair facing Frankie.

Adam’s instinctive pleasure at seeing Jonnie was doused by the realization that something was very wrong—confirmed by Jonnie’s brief, troubled smile of greeting.

“Looky what I got,” Frankie said in that same tone of forced joviality. “I ask the FBI for a little help and before I know it, I’ve got half the profilers at Quantico taking up all the chairs in my office.” She pointed at Rob. “That’s my second in command, Robert Haskell. And I guess you already know Special Agent Darling.”

“No,” the blond man said. “I don’t know Agent Darling. I’ve heard of him though.” And clearly it was all bad. His smile was somehow more alarming than other people’s scowls.

Jonnie said, “Adam, this is Unit Chief Sam Kennedy.” She didn’t quite cough when she said Unit Chief, but the words did seem to stick in her throat.

And no wonder. Sam Kennedy was a legend. The kind of legend Special Agents in Charge told bad little subordinates who wouldn’t eat their vegetables. The Bureau’s very own Bogeyman.

He was also BAU, which was confusing. What was Jonnie doing with the BAU? What was Jonnie doing here at all?

Kennedy was dressed casually: a bulky sweater beneath the blue and gold FBI parka. It didn’t matter. He was one of the few people in the world you could try and try to picture stark naked and it still wouldn’t diffuse the threat.

“Sir,” Adam said.

“Agent,” Kennedy said. His blue eyes looked like ice chips. “I understand you’re attempting to single-handedly run a serial killer investigation.”

What the…?

Adam looked at Russell. Russell raised his eyebrows as though in polite inquiry.

“No. That’s not the case.” He could feel Rob’s stare, and his face flamed as he wondered suddenly if it was the case. If it was the general opinion of the Nearby Sheriff’s Office that he had overstepped the boundaries. It had certainly been Rob’s opinion half an hour ago—and nobody was speaking up on his behalf now.

Kennedy said, “Sheriff McLellan, do you have a spare office where I can speak to Agent Darling in private?”

Frankie’s eyes met Adam’s. She looked sorry for him. “You can use our interrogation room. Third one off the main room.”

Adam turned. He couldn’t look at Rob. He left Frankie’s office and walked down to the room where he and Rob had interrogated Gibbs that morning—was it only that morning?—listening to the measured tread of Kennedy’s feet behind him.

He felt…well, mostly he just felt numb. Hollow. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He knew with complete certainty that he was about to be fired, and while he could see that he had made a series of missteps—starting with his failure to realize that Russell was a serious enemy—he still couldn’t quite grasp how he’d gotten into this position.

His mouth was dry, there was a block of ice in his belly, and he was desperately afraid that he might look like he was going to cry. He was not going to cry. He was not going to show anything if he could help it.

The door to the interrogation room closed. Kennedy said, “If you’ve got something to say for yourself, Agent, now would be the time.”

Adam turned to face him. He forced himself to sound crisp and unemotional. “Agent Gould and I were here in October on morgue patrol for the Roadside Rip—”

“I already know all this from Gould.” Kennedy cut in. “I want to know what the hell you think you’re doing usurping the authority of a local sheriff’s office and taking over their murder investigation?”

“I’ve done no such thing. We’re here to assist Sheriff McLellan at her request.”

“You’re here,” Kennedy said. “Your partner has been trying unsuccessfully to get you to involve the regional office so that the two of you can return to your own jobs and responsibilities. And you have steadily refused. True?”

Adam swallowed. “Not…completely.”

Kennedy laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Out of curiosity, which part of it’s not true?”

“We’ve only been here ninety-six hours. It’s not as though—”

“And an action-packed ninety-six hours they’ve been. There’ve been several search and rescue efforts, a second murder, a shootout with a domestic terrorist, and now you’ve started interrogating suspects in homicide cold cases.”

“Sir—”

“Since you enjoy local policing so much, Agent Darling, I suggest you apply for a position with the Nearby Sheriff’s Office.”

Boom. Done. Quick, clean severing of head from body. He barely even felt it.

He stared at Kennedy. Kennedy stared back, hard-faced and unrelenting. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Oh. Right. Adam’s badge and gun. And probably his laptop too, come to think of it. He couldn’t seem to make himself reach for his ID. He was afraid his hand might shake. But it wasn’t just that. He had worked his entire life—the Bureau was his entire life—

Kennedy cocked an eyebrow. An ice cold bastard to the end. He spread his hands. “Nothing?” he asked. “That’s it? That’s the extent of what you have to say for yourself?”

Adam stared, noncomprehending. Wait. Was it not over?

He said, “I didn’t volunteer to come up here. Sheriff McLellan asked for our help, and that’s what I’ve been trying to provide. It’s a small office, they have limited resources, and yes, I’ve done everything I’ve been asked to do. I thought that was why I was here.”

“Really? Agent Russell believes you’re here because you’ve formed a particular…friendship with Deputy Haskell. In fact, his words were gone native.”